


Taunt him with the license of ink

by FannieBoone



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 17:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20429408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FannieBoone/pseuds/FannieBoone
Summary: Varric has published a new book of love poetry, and the Court is ablaze with speculation as to the subject, which seems uncomfortably familiar to some.





	Taunt him with the license of ink

Cassandra sat at a table in the great hall, nodding her thanks to the kitchen servant who’d placed a tray in front of her. According to Josephine, she had spent far too much time, of late, holed up in her little bunk above the forge, so this appearance in the hall was entirely for the Ambassador’s benefit. She had chosen a time when it was mostly empty and sat with her back to the room. 

The hall was quiet. Almost peaceful. Bearable, perhaps, in small doses. She tucked into her meal, studiously ignoring the handful of gossiping nobles standing in clusters around the hall.

Or, at least, she tried.

“Did you hear?” an Orlesian woman whispered somewhere just over her shoulder. “Master Tethras has written a new book! It’s the talk of Val Royeaux.”

“Another serial? Or is it the book of the Inquisition we’re all eagerly awaiting?” an all too breathless male voice answered. Cassandra rolled her eyes at her plate.

“Don’t be silly, he can’t finish _ that _ one until they’ve won, can he?” the first voice giggled. “No, it’s a book of _ poetry. _ Love poems! I think perhaps he has found himself a muse.”

Cassandra tilted her head. If it were anything like _ Swords and Shields _, it could be worth reading. A muse, though? He had been well put out about Davri’s involvement in the red lyrium trade, so Cassandra rather doubted he’d suddenly started writing love poems to her, unless it was how he was dealing with a broken heart.

Though, he hadn’t _ seemed _ to be nursing that much of a broken heart. But the dwarf was all too capable of hiding his true emotions behind his bluster, as she hid hers behind a mask of stoicism. 

Maybe she should have shown more concern, but she had been unsure if he would accept that from her, especially so soon after their confrontation in the forge.  
  
“There have been rumors of a carta mistress for _ years _, darling, but I’ve only seen him in the company of the Inquisitor’s inner circle of late. And nothing that seems particularly romantic.”

“I think, perhaps, that here is exactly where he’s found her! She’s a soldier, I’m almost certain of it.”

The male voice gasped. “Love on the battlefield, how beautifully romantic and potentially tragic. Fit for poetry indeed. We must keep an eye out, see if we can solve the mystery!”

Cassandra huffed and shook her head, wrapping a roll in a napkin and standing to leave. She would listen to this speculation no longer. Gossips, the lot of them.

But... perhaps she would look into this book of poetry. She could use a pleasant diversion and she was between books at the moment. She headed to the library, straight to the alcove where Varric’s books were usually shelved, though many, as usual, were on loan at the moment. She wasn’t the only one to quiet their worries in frivolous reading. Though a whole shelf was dedicated to Varric’s work, only four volumes of _Hard in Hightown_ sat on that shelf. No poetry, then.

She wondered if the nobles were mistaken, or if, perhaps, another fraudulent author had tried to capitalize on Varric’s name.

She was just standing up from her inspection of the shelf when Dorian appeared behind her, leaning against the shelf, a smirk on his face.

“I would’ve thought you had all of them by now,” he drawled. “After all, we all know you’re a _ fan _.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. “Apparently, there’s a new one I didn’t know about. What do you want, Dorian?”

“It is, in fact, what _ you _ want that is the salient point here, Cassandra,” Dorian smiled. “I may have gotten my hands on a copy. It’s _ poetry _, not at all what I would have expected from Varric, but surprisingly well done. When I asked, he said it was a wedding gift for the Inquisitor.”

“A wedding gift,” Cassandra smiled. “Well, that explains it.”

“I don’t know if it does,” Dorian said, waving a slim volume under her nose. “See, when I read it, the couple in the poems doesn’t sound much like our dear Inquisitor or her Commander, not at all. Though, they did seem somewhat familiar.”

Cassandra snatched the book from him. “Familiar how?”

Dorian shrugged. “Read it, and perhaps you’ll see.”

Cassandra frowned at the mage’s back as he turned and sauntered, whistling, back to his usual alcove. He was up to something. But then, he was always up to something. With a disgusted sigh, she made her way back to her little corner of the training ground and found a comfortable spot to settle in to read.

#

Cassandra shivered and blinked in the lamplight, her eyes aching as she looked up, realizing only as she did that it had gone dark. She had been so absorbed in her reading she hadn’t even noticed. 

Dorian had been correct. Though Varric may claim he had written the poetry as a wedding gift for the Inquisitor and Cullen, so much of the dwarf came through in each verse that it was impossible to read the lines and not hear them in his voice, not anything like Cullen’s, and, instead of a fair, bubbly mage for a beloved, the poems described a soldier of stern and stoic bearing.

One that seemed a touch too familiar for comfort. But it was also vague enough to describe any number of other women amongst their ranks. She could be wrong, letting the meddling Tevinter get into her head for his own amusement. It would only lead to embarrassment and she wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction.

But…

She could be right.

Grumbling, she made her way to her cot in the loft, setting aside her armor and blade and making herself comfortable before picking up the book again and turning to one of her favorites, a poem that did not deny the beloved’s faults but celebrated them.

She had never enjoyed those poems that place their subject on a pedestal, ignoring all those foibles that make them people. Both the narrator and the object of these poems were profoundly, beautifully imperfect and all the more real because of it.

She tried to ignore the small voice in her mind whispering that Varric would know that she would hate a blind, too flattering portrayal of herself. The warm feeling in her core, however, was harder to ignore.

#

And of course, the very next day, the Inquisitor decided that she and Varric would be the ones to accompany her and Vivienne to look at some elven ruins.

The argument began before they even made it to their base camp. The conversation had started, peacefully enough, with a discussion of the previous night’s offerings from the Skyhold chef. It devolved somewhere around dessert when Varric mentioned having packed a bottle of wine for the trip, like it was some sort of pleasure jaunt.

Cassandra wasn’t even altogether certain why that made her so angry. It wasn’t like _she _was the one carrying it, or like it would slow the dwarf down much, with his broad shoulders and…

It was the principle of the thing, not that the Inquisitor agreed with her, as when they returned to camp after a tromp through the woods and an undead-infested elven ruin, she and Varric split the bottle, Varric regaling them all with one of his tall tales.

She huffed and made off to her tent, hoping to get to sleep before the Inquisitor joined her. She tuned out the laughter from outside and curled up on her cot, pulling the blanket over her shoulders.

She was awakened by the sound of rustling fabric at the other side of the tent, and blinked her eyes open to see her friend readying herself for bed. She smiled, despite herself, and Trevelyan smiled back.

“Sorry to wake you, Cassandra,” she said. “I was trying to be quiet.”

Cassandra shook her head. “I was sleeping fitfully at best, do not bother yourself.”

The Inquisitor sat on her cot and looked over at Cassandra. “You should talk to him. I know you’re not angry about the wine, not really. It’s not like it’s the first time, or as if he’s the only one.”

“No,” Cassandra said, “I suppose it’s not about the wine.”

“You’re going to have to forgive him for Hawke eventually, you know,” the Inquisitor said. “He was protecting a friend. You said yourself that you’d probably do the same, in his position.”

“It’s not about that either,” Cassandra said, sitting up. “Not really.”

“Ah,” Trevelyan frowned. “So you read the new book.”

“I am . . . unsettled.”

Trevelyan grinned and tucked her ginger hair behind an ear. “I wasn’t sure you’d figure it out. He was vague enough, it’s only recognizable to the people who know you both the best, really.”

“I am correct, then, in assuming the woman described bears more than a passing resemblance to myself?”

Trevelyan smiled kindly. “You could just shrug it off, after all, he used his friend Aveline and her beau as inspiration and it was nothing more than that.”

Cassandra made a disgusted huff and looked over at her friend in disbelief.

“Yes, I’ve read the book and I don’t believe that any more than you do, but you could accept it as only that and move on. Varric would never say a word. Honestly, I don’t think he expected anyone to figure it out.”

“I’m not entirely certain I want to. I suspect I may feel . . .” Cassandra plucked at her blanket nervously. A blush rose high on her cheekbones. “I . . . I feel I should say _ something. _”

“Ah . . . I had no idea,” the Inquisitor blinked in surprise. “And I am fairly certain no one else does either, least of all Varric. You don’t half play your cards close to your chest, Cassandra.”

“Honestly, I had no idea myself, until I thought about it, and now I can’t _ stop _ thinking about it.”

“That’s kind of how it works sometimes,” Travelyan smiled softly. “I’m glad. If I could I would have all of my friends be as happy as Cullen and I have been.”

It’s not like you to be so sentimental.”

“No more than it is like you,” she laughed. “But sentiment has its place. And romance. And it’s important to take time for it even in the midst of all of this. Perhaps _ more _ important in the midst of all of this.”

“I am terrified. Why is it that I can stand nose to nose with a dragon, but this feels like it could break me?”

“Because it could. All a dragon can do is kill you.”

Cassandra groaned and laid back down. “Good night, Inquisitor.”

“Night, Cassandra.”

#

The party completed their objective, Cassandra studiously avoiding any further confrontations with Varric, and headed back to Skyhold. On the Inquisitor’s advice, Cassandra made plans to seek out the dwarf and ask him, once and for all, what he had meant by the poetry. 

If she wasn’t the only one that saw the similarities, there had to be something to it, and she wanted to know, for certain, one way or the other. This insecurity, this uncertainty, gnawed at her. 

But Varric was not in his usual place at the table by the fire.

“He’s in his quarters.”

Cassandra turned to Leliana with a huff. “Must you always know _ everything _?”

Leliana just blinked at her inscrutably. “Yes.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes and stalked off with a disgusted grunt, heading for the stairs. The dwarf had chosen one of the smaller rooms off of the ramparts for his quarters, but spent very little time there, instead spending most of his waking hours in the inn or great hall. It had at one point annoyed her that he would have one of the more comfortable rooms while she slept on a cot above the forge and their military commander had a hole in his roof.

But then, the cot above the forge suited her, she had been offered a well appointed room and turned it down, and Cullen claimed to enjoy the cool breeze and the starlit sky at night.

But then, she supposed Cullen spent very few nights in that bedroom any longer.

She took a deep breath and knocked at Varric’s door.

"Go away, Dorian, I’m not talking to you,” Varric’s voice said, sounding grumpy and tired.

“It’s not Dorian,” Cassandra said to the door.

There was a crash and a scrape and, a few moments later, the door cracked open. Varric looked up at her warily.

“What’ve I done now, Seeker?”

“Nothing. I . . .” Cassandra looked down at Varric’s inkstained fingers to avoid his face, studied the way the ink highlighted the callouses that came from fighting, from stringing Bianca. “Why aren’t you talking to Dorian?”

“He meddles too much,” Varric turned and waved her into the room, settling into the chair in front of a desk littered with papers. “Well, what did you want, Seeker. Or are you running low on your dwarf threatening quota for the week?”

“I, ah,” Cassandra wrung her hands. “I read your latest book.”

Varric’s hand jerked nervously, nearly upsetting an inkpot on his desk. “Shit,” he muttered, catching it, then looking back up at Cassandra. “Did you, ah... did you enjoy it?”

Cassandra blushed. “It was . . . I did.”

“Oh,” Varric fiddled with some of the papers on his desk, picking up and putting down what looked like a shipping invoice. “It was a gift.”

“For the wedding,” Cassandra nodded, “I’d heard, but….”

“Dorian got to you didn’t he? Bastard, I’ll…"

“He didn’t say anything,” Cassandra frowned. “Well, he _ was _being Dorian, but that’s not why I”m here.”

“Well?”

“The woman you describe in these poems is a soldier, not a mage.”  
  
“Poetic license.”

“She is described as having dark hair,” Cassandra continued. “You speak of fear of the day she comes home on her shield.”

Varric turned around and started going through the papers on his desk, studiously avoiding Cassandra’s eyes. “Surely you know of the reference. Just a little shorthand for effect.”

“_ Varric. _”

“_ Cassandra _.”

“Did you write these poems about me?” Cassandra asked after a few minutes of glaring. “For me?”

“You don’t have to look so angry about it.” 

“I’m not!” Cassandra cleared her throat. “I’m not angry, Varric, I’m flattered. I’m…”

“Oh.”

“I find myself wondering if the emotions expressed in these poems are…”

“Not just poetic license.”

“I know you just...with Miss Davri….”

“They’re not,” Varric said over her. “And the only Bianca that matters to me is sitting in that corner.”

“Oh,” Cassandra looked at Varric, who was finally looking at her.

“Seeker, can you promise not to punch me in the next five minutes?”

“Of course I won’t, Varric, what are you…?

Varric stood and stepped towards her as if stepping closer to a frightened animal. He scrambled up onto a crate beside the bed, which put him nearly at her height.

“You’re not wearing armor,” he said softly. “I can count on one hand the times I’ve seen you without armor since we met, Seeker.”

“I…”

“I didn’t think anything would come of it, you know, just a little crush, I’d just wait for it to go away, I’m not a kid, it wouldn’t be the first time, not like there was any hope.”

Cassandra frowned, started to argue, but Varric shook his head.

“But you show up here, no armor, no sword and shield, and start asking me about my poems, and I start to think there might be hope. So. Please don’t hit me.”

Varric leaned in, a large hand cupping her cheek, and met her lips with his own, quickly, chaste, then backed away to look at her.

“Alright?” he asked, his voice hoarse. 

She reached up to cup the hand on her cheek and nodded. When Varric leaned in again, she met his lips with her own. 

“Damn, Seeker,” Varric said after a moment, looking up at her. “You should smile like that more often.”

Cassandra ducked her head, pink staining her cheeks. “I’m no good at this.”

“And you think I am? I’m just as lost as you are. Hell, I had no idea you would do anything more than shrug off my stupid attempt at poetry. Or, you know, throw me into the dungeons.”

“You didn’t write them for the Inquisitor and Cullen.”

Varric laughed. “No, I wrote them for _ you _.”

“It’s quite romantic.”

“Takes one to know one,” Varric smiled at her. “I thought this would be harder. Well, when I allowed myself to think it might be _ possible _. I’m still not certain I’m not dreaming.”

Cassandra frowned at him. “I am the subject of no one’s dreams.”

“Seeker, have you seen you?” Varric laughed. “Believe me, you’ve starred in the dreams of plenty of people.”

Cassandra stepped back, blushing. “But no one has ever . . .”

“No one?” Varric raised an eyebrow.

“Well, once there was someone, but . . .” Cassandra shrugged. “It seemed that dealing with me was too much of a chore. I know I am difficult.”

Varric took Cassandra’s hands. “Some difficult things are the most worth doing. Anyone who couldn’t see that is a fool.”

“I . . .”

Varric shook his head and squeezed her hands. “Don’t. Don’t put yourself down, not in my presence. You know that I love you, Seeker?”

“I did not. Varric, I. . .” Cassandra blinked away the sudden moisture in her eyes. 

“Don’t. Not until you mean it,” Varric smiled and kissed her hand. “I told you I want to do this right. Why don’t we start with a picnic? There’s a little spot on the ramparts no one visits often, with a pretty view. I’ll meet you there in, say, an hour?”

“You don’t have to court me like I’m a silly girl.”

“I don’t think you’re a silly girl,” Varric smiled. “But you are definitely worth courting properly. So. Picnic?”

“Yes, I,” Cassandra smiled, ducking her head and blushing. “Yes.”

“Good. It’s a date.”

**Author's Note:**

> Does this need another chapter with some smut? It may need another chapter with some smut.


End file.
